Five Hundred Reasons
written by: Rob Gerke, Jr.
“I killed her, Sal. This is on me.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting by saying it out loud —some kind of relief, maybe. But instead it felt like I’d just stabbed myself in the gut.
“What the hell are you talking about? You didn’t pull the trigger,” Sal said, “And keep your voice down, because this ain’t anyone else’s business.”
He waved his hand out to indicate there were other patrons. All five of them, plus the bartender, had no interest in either of us. Sal was sitting across from me in a booth at O’Brien’s Pub on Race Street, just down the block from Third. The year-round Christmas lights flickered above us, and shadows danced across the table. We were in the back of the joint, but it was a small place that didn’t afford us much privacy if anyone did decide to eavesdrop.
Sal Trevino was an old friend, a homicide detective who’d stuck with it long after I’d bowed out and gone private. We’d started out together at the academy, and both got our shields around the same time. He was still as gruff as he’d ever been but I appreciated that about him. I could always count on him to give it to me straight, even when I didn’t want to hear it.
“She asked me for help, Sal. And I failed her.”
“I hear you, Blaine. But listen — this shit ain’t your fault. You can’t save everyone. Take a night, drink on it, and let it go.”
I swallowed down some beer, the bitter taste barely registering. Miller Lite, my go-to when I wanted a drink but didn’t want to be drunk.
The woman in question was Susan Sims. A bank teller in Center City. She had an ex-husband — Tommy Sims — who was an awful piece of work. He was the type of prick who thought a thirty-dollar score was worth beating a bodega clerk half to death. Susan hired me to be her escort to court; she was going to testify against him as a character witness because she’s been on the receiving end of those fists far too many times and wanted to help him on his way to his new home in the joint.
I did my job by making sure she was safe, got her in and out of that courtroom without incident. She paid me five hundred bucks for the trouble. Neither of us counted on the outcome.
Not guilty.
Tommy walked out of that courthouse a free man. There wasn’t enough evidence to nail him. The bodega’s security cameras had never been turned on, just there for show like a lot of businesses that didn’t want to pay for their upkeep, and the poor clerk who’d picked him out of a mug book suddenly couldn’t swear to the identification once he was on the stand.
A week after the verdict, Susan called me. She was terrified. She didn’t know what to do. I told her to get out of town, find somewhere he wouldn’t look for her, make sure her number was unlisted. I suggested she contact the police for protection. She said she would do all that, but she’d already gotten a restraining order against Tommy.
“An order of protection. Those things aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. Nine times out of ten they’re only enforced after they’ve been violated, which doesn’t do a whole lot of good for the supposedly protected party,” I said.
Sal nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been on my share of those calls. The woman’s either dead or barely hanging on, and the guy’s sitting there looking all smug in the back seat of the cruiser. He got what he wanted.”
“That’s what happened here,” I muttered. “Except they haven’t caught him yet.”
“No, they got him,” Sal corrected me, “But he alibied out.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said before taking a long pull from the bottle. “I know he did it and so do you.”
Sal sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, we both know he did. But we can’t prove it. No gun, no solid link to the scene. All we’ve got is motive. And motive doesn’t mean shit without something to back it up. Besides, his girlfriend – some waitress at Minnetti’s – swears to God he was home all night.”
“She’s probably terrified of him, but anyway, I know where he lives,“ I said, and Sal looked me directly in the eyes because he knew precisely where I was going with this line of thought. It hadn’t been more than a week since the murder – she was shot twice outside of her sister’s apartment building in Brewerytown – and not much more than that since she’d called me to express her fears.
“Eddie,” said Sal, using my first name, which he only did when he was about to say something serious, “I know what’s going through your head right now and that’s where it needs to stay. Don’t fuck up your life over this jagoff. You and I been doing this shit for a lot of years and it tends to all play out the same. They get away with one thing, they get popped for the next. Let the street take care of it.”
I took a sip of my beer, and noticed I’d done some damage to the contents of the bottle. I was almost ready for another one, but a large part of me wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want to talk about this any longer, but I knew if I didn’t I’d be sitting in my apartment stewing on it, which didn’t seem like a lot of fun, either.
“Nothing you’re telling me puts any blame on you. What were you going to do, move in with her?”
“I could have done something. When I was on the job and we knew some jackass was about to do something stupid we’d have a talk with him,” I said, although the word ‘talk’ was not an accurate description of how it would have gone down.
“You’re not a cop anymore,” said Sal.
“You’re right,” I said.
***
Later that night I found myself in South Philly standing in the doorway of a bagel shop that had closed hours earlier. It was just above freezing so I was wrapped in my overcoat and had my fedora pulled down to just above eye level. I wore a scarf to protect my neck from getting frostbite. There weren’t that many people out and about at that hour, so I was able to remain pretty inconspicuous as I watched the building across the street. The one where Tommy Sims lived with his girlfriend, whose name I found out was Beverly Washburn. She was twenty-two and the mother of a three-year-old boy. It’s amazing what you can find out on the internet with just a few clicks.
I’d like to say I didn’t know why I was there, but I also don’t like to lie to myself. The truth was I didn’t have a plan, and the only ideas in my brain were terrible. Was I going to knock on his door and beat him with the tire iron I didn’t have? My bare fists? Sure, I wanted to, but what would that accomplish other than me being awarded an assault charge? Besides, Beverly was most likely home and I couldn’t imagine her as anything but an innocent bystander. Also, there was a kid involved.
I balled up my fists and went home, which was where I belonged. I didn’t know exactly what I would do next, other than the fact that I was pretty sure I’d be hungry for Italian the next day.
***
A couple of days later my phone rang as I was getting out of the shower. Talking to people before I’d had coffee was something I rarely had the desire to do, but I saw that it was Sal so I made an exception and answered.
“Blaine. You home?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you might like to know – the darndest thing happened last night. Little Miss Washburn, and I’m pretty sure you know who I’m talking about, dropped by the precinct and rescinded Tommy Sims’ alibi. She even had the gun with her.”
“That’s a hell of a thing, Sal, and I’m glad to hear it. I wonder what caused her to have a change of heart.”
“Yeah, I wonder that, too. Said she ran into a friend of Tommy’s who accidentally spilled the beans that he’d been cheating on her with some bartender named Layla.”
“She had him on his knees, huh?”
“Funny,” said Sal, “I asked who this friend was and she told me his name was Ed and that he’d come into her work for lunch. Minnetti’s. You know the place, I’m sure. Don’t you live around the corner? Anyway, he struck up a conversation with her and I guess he ratted Tommy out.”
“I’ll be damned. That’s a fortuitous development. I wonder what reason this guy had to do it. Maybe he had a thing for her.”
“I don’t think he had just one reason. I bet he had five hundred of ‘em. Only thing is we can’t find any Layla bartenders anywhere. It’s almost like someone made her up to get that little girl’s goat. Who’d do something like that, you think?”
“Good Samaritans still exist. You pick Tommy up?”
“Sure did. He knew he was cooked and broke down in a full confession. Even went for the bodega thing. He cried, and I can’t say I felt bad about that.”
“Not sorry to hear that, either,” I said, “Thanks for letting me know, Sal.”
“Yeah, I’m sure this came as a big surprise to you. See ya around, Blaine.”
I hung up the phone and sank into my recliner. I didn’t know how I was going to spend my day, but I knew that I’d be stopping by St. Paul’s Church over in Center City with a check for five hundred bucks. Father Czerny ran a women’s shelter nearby, and they needed that money much more than I did.
- Five Hundred Reasons - March 17, 2025
- Dandelions - November 4, 2018
